Logan: The End
by Topaz Ingenious
Summary: At the edge of his life, Logan searches for a death whilst aiding a little girl, and reuniting with an old friend. (Mini Series) M for language and violence.
1. Chapter 1

It was a cold, cold night as I stepped out of my limo and took around, and I see a worn down bar. Figured I'd stop on the job for a drink. The chill outside goes down to the bones, and I can feel it with every step I take. Every stride, every shuffle, is a chore. I try to reach for my handkerchief in my jacket pocket to cover my mouth as I cough, but my rugged bones can't reach it fast enough.

 _Fuck._ I think to myself as the revulsion of my body and the straining of my lungs is like a knife in the throat, breathing in the cold, bitter air.

I make my way to the bar and open the door to see it eerily empty, with only one man, overweight, sitting at the bar, having a drink and one woman, rugged from smoking, behind the counter, lighting a cigar. This place smells like shit too.

I shuffle to the bar, coughing, and stepping on a newspaper. I'm not gonna get my glasses out just to read a fucking newspaper on the ground, so I just keep going. But what I can make of it is something yellow and blue. The bar is littered with papers everywhere, of what, I don't know. Broken glasses, wine on the floor. Turned over tables. Someone musta had a fight.

The man at the bar looks at me and goes back to lookin' at his empty glass of wine. He shakes his head in despair, and as I reach the bar, the woman puffs some smoke as she asks me, "Whatdya want?" She speaks in an old, raspy voice, puffing out more smoke even after she's done speaking.

She lets out a big cough and it's so bad she has to leave, go to the back of the bar.

"That's why I ain't smokin'." The man beside me jokes.

He picks up his empty glass and adds, without lookin' at me. "My wife don't like me comin' up here. She don't know I'm here. Said if I came up here 'gain, the 'lationship be over. She don't need ta know."

I look at him, not saying a word. He taps the bar with the glass a couple times, taking a pause and then addin'. "What 'bout you, huh?"

He examines me again. "You look like the kinda folk that's seen some shit. What brings you up 'ere?"

With my arms crossed over the old bar, missing some pieces, I have my arm over a piece of the bar that's been dislodged, drawing some blood, but I heal shortly after. "You don't wanna know, pal." I say, strongly.

He smirks a little and looks at me again. "Been there, don' that."

After a couple moments later, someone else finally comes to the bar, an old man, really skinny, stands in front of me, stretching out his arms on the bar. "What can I do ya for?"

I tell 'em and he nods in approval. "You look familiar," The man beside me adds.

"No, I don't." I say, trying to avoid any further questions.

He looks at me for a while and replies, nodding his head. "Nah, can't be you. But 'dere's somethin' 'bout ya."

And just in time, the bartender makes me my drink. I strike back to the man as I tip the glass down. "Fuck off."

The man looks shocked and he retorts back. "What'd you jus' say to me?"

I slam the glass down, but not hard, and strike back. "I said-"

I get interrupted by the bartender who shouts, "Whoa, whoa there! I don't want another fight, alright!?"

"If he wants a fight, he'll get one!" The man says, striking back at the bartender, looking at him and then looking at me. "I can kick ya ass, pal."

"Hey, calm the hell down! Both of you!"

I retort back to the man. "Should keep your fatass down." I give him an angry look, and the man snaps as he jumps out of his chair and tries to hit me with the empty glass of wine. I catch his wrist and I grab his neck, smashing his face onto the bar, dislodging some wood. "Jesus!" The bartender exclaims as the bar gets broken even more, and the man falls flat on his back.

I cough heavily and don't rise back up until a while later. "Ah, fuck it." The bartender swears. "Everything else might as well break!"

He opens a bottle of wine and begins to drink it. "Whole place is a fuckin' mess."

I continue drinking my wine and lay down a tip as I get up from my stool and leave without saying another word. "Hey, hey! Help me clean up this mess!" The bartender pleas.

I slam the door and shuffle back to my limo.

 _Can't get a fucking drink._ I think.

As I'm about to get into the car, I see several trucks driving my way, apparently coming for a late night drink. Another cough comes, but this one's rough. And it takes some time to recover after. My eyes get really heavy, and it's hard to focus. But I get in anyway and get behind the wheel, feeling the alcohol take effect. I start up the car but someone is banging on the door with something hard, something metal. I can smell alcohol, and something that hasn't showered in days. I hear loud shouting, and then my window breaks. I get pissed off and swing the door open, coming out fast and slamming the door hard. "What the fuck are you-"

Before I can finish, I get shot with a shotgun and the men keep trashing the car, pouring alcohol on the limo. I grumble as the bullet is lodged in my chest, and from the impact of the shot.

 _That hurt.._

After a while I finally get up, coughing up blood and struggling to get back up. When I'm back up, one of the men sees me and shouts. "He's back up! Shoot 'em again! Shoot 'em again!"

The man cocks his shotgun and as he shoots it, I deflect it with my claws, cutting it. The man seem surprised. Afraid. "You shouldn't have done that.." I growl, gritting my teeth as the men come full-force.

One of them swings a crowbar at me, but I chop it half. Unfortunately, someone gets a lucky shot as they shoot me in the leg. I yell in pain but I continue fighting. I'm not as good a fighter as I used to be. I'm sluggish and old now, older than before, but older now. They knock me down and start kicking me, pouring wine on me. "Let's see ya git up now!" One of them shouts.

 _Now I'm pissed._

I get back up and cut loose as I chop someone's arm off, someone who had the shotgun, which goes off and shoots my limo.

 _Fuck!_

I get angrier and cut into the man's chest, where his heart would be. I turn and face another creep, shoving my claws up through his head from the bottom of his chin, doing it again for good measure, and then kicking him aside. A big guy hits me from behind and I jab him repeatedly. He's not getting up from that. I continue my attack, and they seem even more afraid now. Good. Maybe they'll leave. And after I cut someone's head off, they start running.

 _Shoulda left sooner.._

I throw a half of a crowbar at one of the trucks as they drive away, as hard as I can. When the rage settles, I can feel the pain in my body again. I start coughing again, with blood again this time. Now I have even more of a shuffle with the bullet in my leg.

I open the car door again, sluggishly and weakly, and as I get back into my seat, I realize how fucking cold I am. As the cold creeps into the wounds, it begins to hurt even more. And for a second, I think I can see my breath.

Why were these people here anyway if they already had drinks? Wreck shop? Doesn't matter, it's over. As I start the car again, I have a moment of reflection. Something that haunts me every day, knowing I can't get it back.

 _What could've been.._

After a moment, I drive off and go to wherever the hell this limo takes me. Wherever I can die in peace.


	2. Chapter 2

I see myself on a boat with Charles, somewhere far in the middle of the ocean, with no land in sight. As the gentle waves move us about, Charles lets out a sigh of relief. "This, this is nice."

He smiles and looks up at me, adding. "This is the perfect way to end it. Away from the cruelty."

He smiles even wider now and asks me. "What'd you think, Logan?"

I take a moment and let it sink in. This is the first time I've felt something. Something, good. I smile back and answer. "All of it was worth it."

Then I'm awoken by a gunshot in the air, jumping back to life. It takes a moment to come to, and when I have my senses back, I see I'm on the side of the road, asleep at the wheel, with the car on drive. But running into a light post stopped the limo. How long was I asleep?

I smell gunpowder, and lots of it. A few minutes after I'm awake again, it still takes me a while to regain focus.

 _Shit._

I have a raging headache. The airbags must've set off when I hit the light post, but before I probably hit my head on the wheel. Another terrible cough comes out and it's like they just keep getting worse.

My limo may be a rental, but it's in bad shape already. Guess that's what happens when I'm in control of it. I put the car in reverse, but first looking around for anything coming, and then back up. I get a text and I reach in my jacket pocket for my glasses. I text back that I'm on my way, and when the car is finally off the curb, I make way to the club, getting out of the lightpost that fell on top of the car.

The man is on the phone in the back of the car, talking about the good time he had, how drunk he got; at which point I raise my glass of wine to him through the mirror of the limo, and he smiles back. I take a small drink of my wine and put it back in the cupholder, coughing afterwards.

My next customers are people standing in the limo with the sunroof open, shouting "USA! USA!" getting wine all over the carpet and the seats. I tell them to knock it off but they can't hear me.

"Pricks." I mumble to myself.

All night, for hours, I hear all about the good nights people had, while I'm not sure where I'm going with mine, thinking about all I've missed. All that I could've done. Finally, the night's over and I head to my home to change out of my clothes and into something less formal. I go to the bathroom and stand over the sink, flexing my muscles to pop out whatever bullets I've accumulated throughout the day, which is a lot. Whenever a bullet pops out, blood falls too. My healing isn't as strong as it used to be. What used to take seconds now takes much longer. Once the bullets are popped out of my body, there's the matter of the shotgun shell in my chest. It's fucking hard to pop out, and after a while, I decide "fuck it" and use a claw to dig into my chest and get it out. I accidentally push it farther in at times, or I'm moving it around in my chest. I can't coordinate and my muscles are tired, from head to toe, from the day and from the ample use I've had to do. Exerting myself at my old age.

Coughing doesn't help my case either, considering it compresses my chest.

 _C'mon, dammit!_

When I'm close to getting it out, the cough slides it back in. I get angrier and angrier the more I have to try to get the damn thing out. Sometimes my chest heals back up and closes the wound, sticking the shotgun shell inside, and I have to cut open my chest again and get it out. Occasionally, the claw I'm using hits against my skeleton, and I put my claw back in in fear I cut myself in half.

 _It'd be worth it._

But I won't. Finally I say fuck it and use all three claws to dig into my chest, making a line to reach inside my chest and take out the bullet myself. But I have to make to make it big enough.

 _Ah, fuck!_

As I see myself in the old, rusty mirror, I see my arm reaching inside my chest, trying to remove the shell. It takes four tries to get it out finally, and drop it in the sink.

 _You piece of shit.._

Now that that's taken care of, I wash my hands to get the blood off and put on a button-up shirt. When that's done, I wash my face and head out to my other car to make way to the outpost.


End file.
